


Carved in Cursive

by littleblackfox



Series: Parasapa [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Blacksmith Bucky Barnes, Fandom Supporting Migrants, M/M, Romani Bucky Barnes, Sheriff Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 04:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: For Darry, erstwhile beta and dear friend. She asked for more from Cinder and Smoke, and here is an excerpt from the sequel I will eventually write I promise





	Carved in Cursive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/gifts).

> For Darry, erstwhile beta and dear friend. She asked for more from Cinder and Smoke, and here is an excerpt from the sequel I will eventually write I promise

Steve reaches for his cup of coffee only to find it cold and unpalatable. He swallows it down, gritty dregs and all, for no part of this day has been warm or palatable since he crawled out of his bed.  
He thinks back to that bed with no small amount of longing. The bed and the other body in it, warm and familiar and difficult to leave.   
“Alright,” Steve sighs, and spreads his hands out over the sheet of butchers paper covering his desk. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”  
On the other side of the desk stands May, stiff-backed and scowling. In her right hand is a piece of charcoal, which she smacks against the paper. Again. A shard of burnt willow breaks off, smearing the stick figure scrawled on the page.  
“This is a…” Steve hesitates. He hears the word _Celestial_ thrown around town, and though it is nowhere near as bad as some of the other words he’s heard used to describe May and her people (only once mind, then the person in question is preoccupied with a broken nose). It still doesn’t sit right on Steve’s tongue. “This is one of your people, right?”  
May nods, exasperated, then stabs the charcoal at three more figures drawn beside what he guesses is a river?  
“_Gwai_,” May says. “_Bok gwai lou_.”  
Gwai means ghost, Bucky had told him that once. Ghosts? Is she being haunted by ghosts? And if she is, surely that would be more Erskine’s field of expertise. Steve can’t arrest the dead.  
Steve stares blankly at her, and wishes that Bucky were here. Okay, so he doesn’t speak more than a few words of… whatever it is that May speaks, but he’s a damn sight better at listening, at watching the way people move and the stories they tell with the shape of their hands, the tilt of their head, the darting of their eyes.  
May smacks the image, the charcoal crushing to powder. There will be no afternoons spent sketching in his notebook in Steve’s future, not until he’s ordered more from Cheyenne.  
“Mother _fucker_,” May snarls, and of all the words Bucky could have taught her, why did it have to be that one?

The sheet of butchers paper is a mess to behold. Script that Steve has no hope of reading rains down in columns, and striding between them are shapes that Steve is more or less certain depict men.   
“Motherfuckers,” he says, because at least they can agree on that, and holds up three fingers. “Three motherfuckers, unless that’s supposed to be a horse.”  
“Motherfuckers,” May grasps his fingers and gives them a shake, and Steve can practically hear the _Idiot boy, finally!_  
“So, three motherfuckers,” he says, tapping at the figures scrawled on the paper. “And your guy… what?”  
May’s hand twitches, as if she’d like nothing more than to clip him round the ear. She wouldn’t, but Steve scoots his chair back a little just in case. She brings the palm of her hand down on the lonely figure, scrunching up the paper in her fist, and no one is dumb enough to miss what that means.  
“The three motherfuckers killed one of your people?” No wonder she is pissed. Steve is pissed. “When? Where did this happen?”  
May looks at Steve like he is her youngest, most disappointing nephew. “Motherfuckers.”  
“Oh for-” Steve cuts himself off, takes a breath and tries again. “Why?” He pantomimes confusion, eyebrows raised, and taps at the three moth- the three men and the single figure in turn. “Why kill him?”  
May pulls a bag from the folds of her robe and slams it on the table. Steve pulls it open, revealing a small lump of thick brown paste.  
“Damn it, May,” Steve sighs.

Opium. Her man was bringing her opium, and got accosted by three men on the road to Parasapa.  
“What the hell are you doing, bringing dope into town?” Steve picks up the bag and shakes it at her. “Do you have any idea what this does to people? Eats them up from the inside, until they’re hollow.” He throws the bag down. Gwai is right, they might as well be ghosts.  
“Banner,” May says, taking up the bag and stowing it away in the folds of her clothes.  
“What?” Steve briefly reconsiders his stance on opium. “Are you telling me this shit is for the Doc?”  
“Banner,” May says again. She scrunches up her face, balling her hands into fists and swinging them by her sides, and makes a low, guttural noise. As quickly as it began, the performance ends, her spine straightening, her demeanor haughty. “Banner.”  
Steve coughs out a laugh, startling himself, and gives her a rueful nod. “Yeah, he has a temper.”  
He taps his thumb against his lips, considering the crumpled paper between them, and gets to his feet. The decision made, he walks around the desk to join her.  
“I,” he begins, pointing to himself. “Will look for the three motherfuckers.” He touches a finger to the skin under his eye, swivelling left to right as if scanning the horizon. “And get your opium back.” Lastly, he mimes holding a little bundle to his chest, and slowly extends his arms towards her.   
May looks at him askance, but then pretends to take the bag from his hands. She pretends to stow it away before pointing to the drawing again, rapping her knuckles on the three motherfuckers, and then raising her hand to her neck.  
With a slow, deliberate gesture, she draws her index finger from ear to ear.

“Son of a-” Steve hisses, turning away to pace across the floor. He gets about two steps before he spins on his heel, coming back to her. “I’m not handing them over to you!” he shouts. “Now, I know what kind of things went on in this place before I came, and we have moved past them. These men will get a fair trial, and if they are found guilty they will be punished. They will not have their throats slit in some back alley, do you hear me?”  
May doesn’t shrink back from his shouting, and Steve counts himself damn lucky she doesn’t smack him one.   
“I am the law, May,” Steve continues, keeping his voice steady if not calm. “And so long as you want to live in this town, make it your home and your place of business, you will abide by my word.”  
May glowers at him, but that is nothing new. She adjusts the sleeves of her shirt, plucking at imaginary specks of dirt before turning back to face him.  
“_Chun dan_,” she tells him, slow and clear.  
Steve rests his hip against the desk, rubbing his hands over his eyes. What the hell is he supposed to do if he does find them? Send a message to Cheyenne asking for them to be put on trial for the murder of a Celestial? For all the tolerance the people of Parasapa show their own, Steve can’t expect to find it elsewhere.   
“I can’t let you kill them, May,” he says, and he feels so damn tired saying it. “I know they done you wrong, and I know it isn’t fair. But if I look the other way on this, where does it stop?” He looks out the window, at the people walking the streets in a big damn hurry to get from one place to the other. “Don’t ask me again, okay?”  
He feels a light brush against his shoulder, and then May grasps him by the chin. “Chun dan,” she says again, and gives his chin a little shake before letting go.  
Steve rubs his jaw as she slams the door shut on her way out, and wonders what she had said to him.

*

Whatever hour it is, night or day, Maria presides over the bar.  
Steve has sloped through the doors at every hour of the goddamn clock; from mid-morning when he’s in search of a straight answer from someone who wasn’t three sheets to the wind, to late at night when a feller with too much liquor and not enough smarts wants to start something, it is always Maria standing behind the bar looking fresh as a goddamn daisy.  
Her patrons are looking sprightly enough, avoiding the early spring chill outside with a game of cards by the fireplace. One or two of them nod as Steve enters, and he tips the brim of his hat to them, taking it off as he reaches the bar and setting it down on the least sticky end of the counter.  
“Rogers,” Maria says brightly, reaching behind her. She grabs the coffee pot on the shelf and smacks it down on the counter between them. “Good timing.”  
“Maria,” Steve groans as she tilts the pot back, revealing the split along the base. When exactly did he become the town’s errand boy when it came to repairs?  
“Just a patch until Luis can bring me a new one.” Maria grins, sliding the pot towards him.   
“Maria.” Steve slides the pot back again. “Unless this thing has committed a crime…”  
“As far as I’m concerned, no coffee while having to look at these sorry bastards is a crime,” Maria snorts.  
Over at the table, one of her patrons raises his glass. “Love you, Maria.”  
“Don’t!” she retorts. “Unless love comes with coffee. In fact you’re all cut off unless you bring me coffee, you hear me? I’m raising the prices, a shot for a dollar and a cup of Coulson’s finest.”  
There is a collective muttering, and one of the guys tosses his cards on the table and grabs his hat. He takes a coin from the pile they’re gambling over, and gives Steve a cursory bow before leaving for Coulson’s hotel.

Steve tips back his head and sends out a vague prayer for strength. At this point he doesn’t care who answers, he’ll even take the big feathery snake Luis is so fond of.   
“Maria, I-”  
“I can’t help you, Sheriff,” Maria cuts him off. “I’m so tired. And thirsty. I have this sack of beans, and I just know they’d help if only I could heat them up somehow, but there’s no-”  
“You could just take it to Barnes and get it fixed yourself,” Steve points out.  
Maria leans over the counter, giving him a sweet, wide-eyed smile. The kind of smile that usually precedes a punch to the throat and a nasty grip-and-twist maneuver to the ballsack. “Why would I haul my ass through the mud when you’re going there anyway?”  
“Fine.” Steve grabs the pot with as little grace as possible. “Now will you listen?”  
Maria settles her elbows on the counter, resting her chin on her folded hands. “I’m all ears, darlin’.”  
“Thank you.” It comes out at least slightly sincere. “You heard anything about three men, most likely new in town? They’ll have recently come into money or dope, and not be shy about celebrating.”  
Maria tilts her head to one side. “Two fellas, not three. Burch and Knox they called themselves, came into town last night. Said another one of their party got greedy, made a lot of noise about cutting his throat and leaving him on the pass.”  
“They say anything about killing someone else?”  
“They said a lot of things. Burch likes the sound of his own voice.” Maria’s expression sours. “I told ‘em to take their business elsewhere.”  
“They say where they were going?”  
“Steve,” Maria chides. “Where else would they go?”  
Steve swears under his breath. Just his fucking luck.  
“Alright,” he sighs, taking up his hat. “Thank you for your time.”  
“Don’t forget my coffee pot.”  
Steve holds up the battered pot and heads for the door, swinging it by the handle. Time to pay a call on the Saloon.

*

A nasty, bitter streak in Steve still harbours thoughts about dragging Alexander Pierce from the sanctuary of his saloon and stringing him up from the same damn tree he would have seen Bucky swing from. Doubtless there are a few folks in town who would be happy to provide him with the rope.   
The problem was, when the dust had settled he’d gone down there, ready to say his piece and more besides, and Pierce was nowhere to be found. He’d left one of his croupiers in charge and took off, skulking back in to town six months later. A week later and Steve would still have no qualms with putting a bullet in the man’s head. A month later and he might have settled for stringing him up by his ankles and leaving out a supply of rotten vegetables, let the kids get some target practice.  
But three months? That was plenty of time for Steve to do a lot of digging, write a lot of letters, and come to the conclusion that the only person who could confirm any kind of plot against the life of the town Sheriff and Blacksmith was in the dirt. Everything hung on the word of one Brock Rumlow, and since he was taken down by Luis in a gunfight, that meant the case against Pierce was dead too.  
Steve hated that fucking Saloon, and he hated that Pierce still lived and breathed in it. But if he walked through those doors and put the man down without provocation, when he was unarmed and unprepared? Well, Steve wasn’t sure he could live with that.

When he shoulders his way through the door, one of the croupiers lets out a flustered little noise, abandoning his table and heading for the stairs. Maria was right about Burch loving the sound of his own voice, and it doesn’t take long to single him out. The man is tall and thin, with features that seem badly carved out of granite, as if the stonemason’s chisel sank in a little too deep. He’s clutching a glass of whisky in one hand, waving it expansively as he tells a bored-looking woman some lengthly anecdote. Like the grim-looking man hunched at the table alongside him, Burch has the wall-eyed look of a man unacquainted with sobriety.  
“Mr Burch?” Steve enquires, and both men swivel around to face him.  
“Ah, yes sir. Yes, that would be me.” Burch smiles, wide and insincere. He looks down at the coffee pot in Steve’s hand. “Oh, no coffee for me, thank you.”   
“I ain’t here to pour you coffee,” Steve tells him.  
“Oh no?” Burch raises his eyebrows. “Then what are you here for?”  
“Taking you in for questioning.” Steve grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet. “Seeing as I’m the Town Sheriff.”  
“Hey!” The other one, Knox, lurches to his feet, and Steve regrets not taking a few minutes to go back to the Jailhouse to drop off the coffee pot. He shoves it into Burch’s hands and swings around to Knox, punching him squarely in the nose and knocking him back into his seat. The woman lets out a scream, scrambling out of the way, and Steve grabs Knox by the shirt and hauls him up with one hand, before collaring a loudly protesting Burch with the other.  
He barely makes two steps before Pierce blocks the doorway.

“What’s this I see? My girls are in a panic and one of my valued customers is bleeding.” Pierce smiles at Steve, brittle and wide. “Why it can only be a visit from our beloved Sheriff. It’s been a while, how are you, Steve?”  
Steve glowers at him. “Get out of my way, Alexander.”  
“Not until you unhand my guests.” Pierce turns to Burch. “I can only apologise, Sonny. You know what these backwater towns are like.”  
“I understand completely.” Burch gestures to the room in general with the coffee pot. “Why it fair dazzles-”  
“Be quiet,” Pierce snaps, the smile curdling as he turns back on Steve. “I said unhand my guests.”  
“These men are coming with me,” Steve gives them both a little shake, Knox still disoriented but coming around. “And you’ll let me pass unless you want a conversation about receivership of stolen goods.”  
“Well then.” Pierce makes no attempt to smile now. “That is a bold claim to be making, Sheriff.”  
“And here I am making it.” Steve pushes past him, towing his suspects towards the door. Pierce steps neatly out of the way, watching him on his way out.  
“Sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” Pierce calls after him. “Do send my regards to your husband.”

It has been a long day, Steve will tell himself later. It has been a long day and every man has his limits.  
He shoves the dope thieves against the wall and turns, stalking back towards Pierce until they are standing nose to nose.  
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Steve hisses in Pierce’s face.  
The bastard shrugs, and Steve grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, forcing him across the Saloon floor and into a table. The patrons sitting jump to their feet, letting out panicked shouts, and a couple of men lingering by the cashiers desk move towards them.  
“Really, Sheriff?” Pierce says, his tone mild. “Are y-”  
“Now you listen to me, you worthless sack of shit!” Steve snarls. “You might have weaselled your way back into this town, but money will only get you so far.”  
“Let go of me,” Pierce utters with quiet menace, and Steve tugs the fabric bundled in his fists, feeling the seams tear.  
“I am _waiting_.” Steve pulls, warping the costly velvet with twisting fingers. “For you put one foot out of line.”  
“Are you threatening me, Rogers?” Pierce tips his head back, meeting Steve’s snarl with one of his own.  
“Yes!” Steve gives him a shove, not enough to send him over the table, but enough to unbalance him, make him reel a little. He steps back, resting his hand on his sidearm as the two guards move towards him. They stop in their tracks, looking to Pierce for guidance.  
Steve stalks back out to Knox and Burch, standing right where he’d left them, too stoned to even run.  
“This isn’t over!” Pierce shouts after him, one hand smoothing down his ruined lapel.  
“Yes it is,” Steve hisses back, and drags the dope fiends into the street.

In summer Parasapa’s streets are hard, dry dirt, the horses kicking up a choking cloud of dust as they pass. In the depths of winter the furrowed mud freezes solid, perilous tracks that a man can turn his ankle walking. The rest of the year is mud. Oh, the mud will vary depending on the weather, turning sticky and clinging in the spring, and forming hard crusts in late summer that a boot will punch right through and get stuck in the mire beneath. February mud is a special kind of unpleasant, just cold enough to get icy and slick, but not enough to freeze.  
Burch stumbles, boots skidding as he fails to find purchase, clutching the coffee pot to his chest. “Sir! Ah, Sheriff,” he stammers. “I believe there has been some kind of misunderstanding between us.”  
Knox meanwhile, remains silent and grim. He walks like a man used to a Sheriff’s hand on his shoulder, and most likely is figuring out how to pin the crime on his partner. His boots are heavy and worn, and he has no qualms about their getting dirty.  
“No misunderstandings, Mr Burch,” Steve tells him, directing the pair down a lane. He glances over towards China Alley, and sees May watching from the open entrance of a tent.  
“I mean -ah!” Burch slips on mud, or something best regarded as mud, and Steve hauls him up before he lands on his ass in the mire. “Thank you, sir.” Burch twists around to look at Steve instead of where he’s putting his feet. “You strike me as a decent and honorable man, I myself in my more garrulous moments consider myself a gentleman also, and if we could just sit down a spell and-”  
Steve shoulders open the door to the Jailhouse and shoves Knox in first. He seems more likely to make a run for it, given the opportunity. Burch he lets go of, and gestures at to go on ahead.  
“Sheriff, you are engaging upon a serious miscarriage of justice here.” Burch tugs on his shirt, trying to pull the collar straight, and Steve assists him into the building with a firm shove, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Listen,” Burch pleads as Steve pushes him into the cell with Knox. “This must be about my former associate, goes by the name of Anitolov? That whole thing was a tragic accident, I assure you.”  
Steve slams the cell door and turns the key. “It’s not about him.”  
“Oh well.” Burch straightens up, his expression losing the hunted, weaselly quality. “In that case I am sure we can resolve this misunderstanding here.”  
“It’s about the Chinese man,” Steve talks over him. “The one you killed for a ball of dope.”  
Burch frowns at him. “You’re… you’re arresting us for a dead Celestial?” He turns to Knox with an awkward laugh. “Do you hear this man? What kind of place have we fetched up in, Knox? Where killing a Celestial is regarded as some kind of crime, and not what it is.” He turns back to Steve with a smile that has far too much teeth. “Pest control.”  
Steve reaches through the bars and grabs him by the shirt, yanking him until he smacks into the bars. The frame rattles, but the iron is well-forged, and Steve keeps pulling, the stained, greasy linen in his fist straining until Burch’s face is mashed up against the bars. Maria’s coffee pot clatters against the iron, gaining a few more dents as Burch struggles. With his free hand Steve reaches through the bars and goes through Burch’s pockets one by one, until he retrieves a burlap wrapped ball.  
“Now just a minute!” Burch yells, words muffled by his restrained state. “That there is mine!”

Steve lets go of him the same moment he tries to pull himself back, and Burch stumbles, landing on his ass on the hard floor of the cell. Steve opens up the bundle and frowns at the contents, comparing it to the one May had shaped out of air and frustration. This ball seems far smaller, and there is more cloth than dope.  
“Where’s the rest of it?” Steve snarls, and Burch, still sat on the floor with the coffee pot beside him, shrugs.  
“Had to, uh, ensure it was of the highest quality.”  
Steve folds the bundle up again. There is no way on earth Burch and his friends could have smoked that much in such a short amount of time. “How much did you sell to Pierce?”  
Burch folds his arms across his chest. “Well I don’t see how that could be any of your business.”  
Before Steve can say anything really stupid, the door opens and Sam walks in. He looks at the cell, at Burch sprawled on the floor and Knox lurking in the corner, and shuts the door behind him.  
“Someone said there was a ruckus outside the Saloon,” Sam remarks, walking through to the next room and waiting for Steve to follow him. He takes off his hat and throws it on the desk by the window. “And I thought to myself well who could that be?”  
“I have it under control.”  
“That would be a first.” The words are cutting, but the smile that comes with them soothes the sting. “What you haul them in for?”  
“Killed one of May’s people, took this off the body.” Steve places the bundle next to Sam’s hat. “There’s also a third member of the party, though word is he got his throat cut down by the pass.”

Sam takes the only chair, sitting down with a quiet sigh while Steve leans his hip against the desk.   
“Alright,” Sam rubs his eyes, getting things straight in his head. “You got any proof?”  
Steve shakes his head. “They were running their mouths off at Maria’s.”  
“But nothing to say they didn’t just find May’s fellow on the road already dead, went through his pockets and got lucky?”  
The headache that has been sitting at the base of Steve’s skull all day gets a little louder, a little more insistent.  
“No.”  
There is a conversation that they are not having. It is a conversation that they have had many times, in many ways, and at some point Sam got tired of repeating himself and Steve got equally tired of making promises he was unable to keep.  
“I’ll keep them overnight,” Sam says when the silence becomes unbearable. “Let them sweat it out, then haul them to the edge of town with some strong suggestions that they don’t come back. That alright with you?”  
Steve is not alright with it, and May won’t be happy either, but then it’s a damn sorry situation all round.  
“Thank you, Sam,” Steve says, voice low.  
“Eh.” Sam shrugs, pulling the ledger over so he can fill a report. “Anything else I need to know about?”  
“I…” Steve presses his thumb to a temple, but the headache only grows. “Might have… threatened Pierce a little.”  
Sam pauses, a drop of ink from his pen splashing onto the page. He doesn’t ask what exactly Steve means by ‘Might’ or ‘a little’, just takes a slow, even breath and carries on writing.  
“There’s gonna be trouble, Steve,” he warns.  
“I’ll handle it.” 

Steve gives Sam a pat on the shoulder. It’s not enough of an apology, but it’s all he can muster.  
He grabs the opium and heads back to the other room. Burch is still sitting on the floor, picking gingerly at the flakes of dried blood on his upper lip. He scrambles to his feet when Steve puts the key in the lock of the cell door, the hinges working silently as Steve hauls it open.  
“I knew you’d come to your senses, Sheriff,” Burch enthuses. “Fine gentleman such as yourself, you-”  
Steve fixes him with a hard stare, and Burch falls silent as he reaches into the cell far enough to retrieve the coffee pot. He shuts the door with a clang, and Burch starts to stutter a protest. Steve ignores him, locking the cell door and hanging the key back on its hook.   
“Have a good evening, gentlemen,” Steve says, tipping the brim of his hat their way and heading for the door.

*

For all that Steve readies himself to get an earful from May, when he goes to China Alley her demeanor is almost civil. She takes the dope with a stiff little bow, before passing it over to one of her people and sending them off down the street. In the gunfire of strange words that passes between the two Steve is pretty sure he heard ‘Banner’, so can only assume that not enough is better than nothing at all under the circumstances. Still, the whole situation sits uncomfortably with him, like a fragment stuck behind a molar that his tongue can’t work loose.  
“I’m sorry,” he tells May, knowing how unlikely it is that she understands him. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”  
He wants to tell her that a lone rider may be faster but a group of them is safer. That if she had only asked he would have gone out on the trail to meet him. That white men are dumber than rocks most of the time and he’s ashamed to be among them.  
But it’s just words, and words will not bring medicine to the Doc or life to the dead man somewhere out on the pass. Steve tips the brim of his hat to her, and goes home.

*

Over the last year the town has spread out far beyond Steve’s estimations. Every day it seems like more houses are being built, that another tent has been cleared away and wooden foundations are being hammered into the hard earth. When he had first come into town the Smithy had been on the very outskirts of Parasapa, the stone walls incongruous against the cluster of tan and off-white canvas. Now they are in danger of being in the very thick of it all. Luis has a smallholding next door, occupied by a small army of cousins and relations that Steve can’t keep track of, and their chickens are forever getting into the paddock to forage among the horses. Rakli and Brooklyn don’t seem to mind the company, and there’s often a few eggs to be found if the horses don’t get to them first. Brooklyn is an absolute terror for eggs, and will sneak up on you while you’re minding your own business and eat them right out of your hand, yolk spilling down her tufted chin and over Steve’s jacket. Damned horse.  
Steve trudges up the street, coffee pot tucked under his arm, and nods to the people passing who wish him good evening. He walks a little faster, trying to exude the air of ‘don’t bother me’ that comes so easily to Bucky. Fortunately it is getting far too cold for people to linger in the street, and no one attempts to detain him.

At the sight of the Smithy the ache in the back of Steve’s skull seems to diminish. He walks past the front door, going around the side to the gate, one hand reaching out to touch the stone wall. In the evening chill they feel warm to the touch.  
The horses in the paddock are standing together, leaning against each other, and whatever chickens have kept them company in the day have gone home to roost. Steve briefly considers a quick search for eggs, but with the weather so cold they are most likely off lay, and there are other places he’d rather be than rummaging around in the sparse grass.  
The side door is closed but unlatched, and Steve pushes it open, eyes adjusting to the gloom as the wave of heat washes over him.  
The light of the forge is always the same, soft and golden, shadows dancing across the weathered stones. And there at the center is his heart, beating with the steady ring of a hammer on hot iron.

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, pressing his nose to the angle where shoulder meets throat and breathing deeply. Bucky lowers his hammer, turning his head far enough to press his cheek to Steve’s hair.  
“Hello, stranger.”  
There is no bite to his tone, no recrimination for Steve having been away so long. There is only warmth and affection, sweet and liquid as honey. Bucky lets go of the pliers holding his work in place, reaching up to tangle rough fingers in the damp of Steve’s hair.  
“You eaten yet?” Bucky asks, his other hand resting on top of Steve’s, thumb gliding over his wrist.  
“Mnf.” Steve could raise his head a little and free up his mouth for speaking, but he much prefers where he is now, thank you kindly.  
“I got eggs,” Bucky rocks from side to side a little. “Could go fancy and cook ‘em in an actual pan if you want?”  
Steve huffs, hot and damp against Bucky’s shoulder. There is cotton, old and soft, keeping his lips from Bucky’s skin, and that is unforgivable. He shifts, working his nose back and forth like a dog snuffling the dirt, until his lips meet flesh, the taste of salt and cinder on his teeth.   
His lips brush against the smallpox scars that cluster along Bucky’s shoulder like constellations. Smooth and flat, as if a counterpoint to the scruff of his beard. He has kissed every last one of them, felt the edges against his teeth.  
Bucky leans back against him, shifting his weight on his feet, getting comfortable. If Steve needs him to he will stand like this for hours, for eternity, his fingers curling in Steve’s too-long hair. He would hum a song, words half-remembered, and Steve would feel the burr of them against his lips, every bristle of his beard a telegraph wire singing with a single message.  
_Home_, Bucky’s pulse whispers, and Steve’s lips part so he can taste it. _You are home_.


End file.
